Sky Maps
by sentbyfools
Summary: A stolen boat. A bottle of rum. And Killian Jones can think of nothing else but Emma Swan. Minor spoilers for 4.01.


**title: **sky maps

**summary: **A stolen boat. A bottle of rum. And Killian Jones can think of nothing else but Emma Swan.

**notes: **Minor spoilers for 4.01, but set in a possible future. This could not have been possible without Ali, Chi, Daphne, Nini, Sandy, and Pearl. Thank you for putting up with me.

* * *

><p>She's been below deck for a good half an hour now by Killian's count. The sun has set, and the stars have all blinked into sparkling existence, beautiful constellations that make Killian ache for the stars above his home in the Enchanted Forest. Even in Neverland where the night sky brought terror instead of comfort, he still wishes he could've spent a moment with Emma, showing her that even in the darkest of nights, there is always light to guide her home.<p>

He wishes he could've done that for her, the way she did for him.

A bit maudlin, perhaps, the thought, but undeniably true. Killian can no more deny that than he can deny the day or the night. Emma Swan barged into his life like the north star breaking through the cloud of a storm, a blazing beacon that he had followed - and would follow across worlds, through time, and gods know where else she'll go charging into.

Hell, he'd followed her onto this yacht earlier today when she'd met him after a day spent with her mother and had brushed off his kiss only to turn her head back, smile rising at the corners of her mouth like she was about to share a secret, and said, "Come on!" as she ran off across the docks to this ship. Stealing it had been her idea, not his. He's not going to say she's more of a pirate than he ever thought, but well, he's all too aware that she could probably give him a run for his money when it comes to whipping a crew into shape; he'd had the ship on the water in record time and with nary a complaint (Smee could learn a thing from his example.)

They're anchored not far from shore, close enough to reach quickly, but far enough away to be alone. Yet, Killian's fingers itch and tap across the wood, and he's probably dug a hole in their "borrowed" vessel with his hook because they're alone, but he's far too alone to be comfortable.

It has been over a half hour now, and she'd said, "Give me a moment, I'll be right back," so, he can't be blamed for thinking something is up. Especially when she'd punctuated those words with a kiss like awakening from a sleeping curse - fingers brushing up underneath his shirt, lips... _her lips_ moving on his with a fervor so uncontrolled that it was only her pause that stopped him from offering himself to her, a willing sacrifice on the altar of her passion.

Killian doesn't _think_ she got scared and ran away, but he _knows_ Emma Swan, and their relationship is as new for her as it is for him. It's only been three months since that moment in the woods, after Elsa's ice monster nearly flattened them. "Be patient," she'd said then, and he'd just been trying to get her to stop avoiding him; he wouldn't be upset if she wanted to stop what she'd started, but he would like to know that she hasn't passed out on that very expensive looking leather couch without sharing that bottle of rum with him.

"Emma," he calls out as he heads below.

"Wait," her voice echoes back to him. He stops, mid-step, peering into the semi-darkness in search of a shape.

"Oh, so you _are _alive?"

Emma's laugh echoes from the right - she _is_ on the couch. "You waited this long to see if I'd died? Good to know I can count on you for a prompt rescue."

He leans back against the stair railing, smirking.

"Ah, but, I thought you didn't need me to be the hero? I do recall, 'the only one who saves me is me,' was said at some point."

Her snort is muffled, and then she says, "I'll allow that I might - _might_ - need your assistance in some instances. I'm not a super human."

"Savior? Super human? I thought they were the same thing."

She doesn't respond for a moment long enough for him to realize that the knot of worry that had carved out his stomach has completely subsided, and his fingers are stilled on the railing. She isn't freaking out, and as maudlin, sappy, _sentimental_ as it is, her teasing words and her happy laugh are like music to his ears. Emma is still _here_ with him, both in mind and body - though he still can't see her (and what has she even been doing for the past forty-five minutes) - and here is where she wants to be.

"You can come down now," she calls.

He takes the last few steps down and turns towards the couch. On the table are two glasses of that rum - he _knew _it - and seated on the couch behind it is Emma with a dark blue quilt thrown over her shoulders and her legs folded beneath her.

"Shoes off," she says when he sets himself down beside her. He slips off his boots and kicks them aside.

"Almost an hour and the bottle's not even half-finished, just what have you been doing down here, Swan?"

He lifts the two glasses off the table and hands one to her. She smiles, uses her free hand to pull the blanket off her shoulders and lay it across the back of the couch. Killian swigs his rum in the glass, but doesn't take a drink, waiting.

Eyes on his, she throws back half the glass and when she catches her breath, she says, "I was thinking."

He studies her eyes, crinkled at the sides from the small smile that still hasn't faded from her lips. "Thinking? About what, may I ask? Quite an involved topic to keep you to yourself for so long."

He doesn't mention a crisis but she must know that is what he's thinking when she replies, "Nothing's wrong, surprisingly. Not a monster to fight or an evil queen to stop; I wasn't thinking of any crisis."

He waits a beat for her to continue. She doesn't. He swallows down most of his glass, lets the warmth rush over him - this world has a talent for rum. "So, it wasn't a crisis."

"No, it wasn't. I was thinking of - " She pauses and huffs out a laugh. When she speaks next, she isn't looking at him, "Well, I was thinking of apartments."

He raises a brow. Not exactly what he was expecting.

"Apartments?"

"Size, location, you know, _parking_. Henry wants one close enough to Mary Margaret and David that he can spend time with the little prince whenever he wants - and him driving is out of the question for now, we've all agreed on that. He found a place near the docks he likes, _but_ -"

Ah, _but_.

Her brow furrows slightly. Fear, nervousness, anxiety - he isn't sure which of those emotions makes her bottom lip tremble, and he's confused as to why an apartment would cause that, but he waits for her to continue. She needs none of his coaxing; she wants to tell him.

"It's not the right size," Emma says at last. "At least, not anymore."

"Well, I'm sure Henry will understand if you have to find someplace else. The lad isn't the type to get upset over an apartment," Killian says, his confusion deepening.

With a decisiveness, Emma grabs his glass out of his hand and sets both of them down on the table. She leans forward on her knees, grabs and pulls him so that he has to bend his knees beneath him to fully face her. One hand wrapped around his hook, the other holding his hand, she says, "No, he's not, but _I'm_ upset. You're a sailor, a pirate. You've already given your ship for me, why should I ask you to give the sea, too?"

"What - " he starts.

Stops.

Surges forward and kisses her soft, slow. He lingers on the crease of her mouth with his tongue, breathes in her soft gasps, the warm air between them. There are stars on her skin, burning white hot with each fusing of their lips, sparking into light behind his eyes and flames pumping in his veins. He pulls away for air, presses his face into the crook of her neck and inhales her. Emma rests her head against him. Her fingers circle his knuckles and hold tight to him.

Killian tightens his own grip and says, "I've lived farther from the sea than an apartment in Storybrooke, Emma."

"Is that a yes?"

He sits up, but only enough that their faces are mere inches apart when he asks, "Was that a question?"

Her green eyes fix on his, sparkling in the lamp light. Red darkens her cheeks and stains her lips. He's never been so happy to see a smile in his life, never felt so _good_ as he does in this moment, with barely a glass of rum in him and on a ship that isn't even quite the vessel the Jolly Roger was, with stars in the sky that are worlds away from the ones he loved when he was Lieutenant Jones and on a sea that doesn't stretch nearly half the distance as the smallest he's sailed -

With the most amazing woman he's ever had the gift of knowing and the certainty of wanting and being wanted, of happiness, of love, of _home_.

"Stay with me?" she asks.

"Always," he promises.

The kiss that follows is nothing like the one before. There is sweetness, true, but Emma does away with the soft and slow, sinking into the passion that had captured them earlier. She pushes him back against the couch until she can crawl on top him, sit in his lap and make him forget all earlier thoughts of scaring her off with the rocking of her hips into him, needy and sure.

His hand is still wrapped in hers, but she's let go of his hook, which is good because he needs something to brace himself when she grinds her ass into his now aching erection.

"Killian, we should -"

Emma lets him go, but only so that he can help her remove his shirt. He moves to do the same to her, but her hands are back on him before he can complete the action and her mouth sucking on the apple of his throat steals his direction. He digs his hook down into the leather couch and wraps his hand around her undulating hips, holding her to him as he grinds up.

Her responding whimper is quiet, but his grunt, when she runs her fingers across his nipple, is not. The leather squeaks a little beneath them, in time with their thrusting hips. Killian pulls his hook out of the couch and presses the curve up beneath her chin so he can lead her head back up. She's smiling when their eyes meet, a deep one that narrows her eyes and makes her lashes shadow her cheeks.

There's a swelling in his chest at the sight that even his absolute _lust_ for her cannot quell. He loves Emma so much.

"Come on, pirate," she says softly, "Kiss me already."

He grins, dumb and happy. "Happy to oblige."

Killian drags his hand from her hip, an effort, but a necessary one to remove her t-shirt and map out the soft skin beneath. Her bra goes next, by her hands, and then he gives into her command and kisses her.

He tastes stars.

Emma's hands are on the waistband of his pants, and he thinks for a moment, that he imagined this different, their first time.

When he was pretending to be a blacksmith, still under the impression that Emma Swan was someone he could get over on, he'd had the quick thought of her in his bed on the Jolly Roger, writhing beneath him. The fantasy had changed when she'd walked off into the forest, prepared to leave the lying blacksmith to the ogres without looking back. Images had flitted through his mind then, of her, that knife, that rope, and a myriad of other things - harsh, rough, and utterly enjoyable.

They'd reached the top of the beanstalk and she'd discovered Milah and he didn't fantasize after that - not even when she'd pressed close to him to save his life and he'd taken advantage. Seduction was his game and his tool, and Emma had made it his betrayal in that moment. She'd made him question his revenge - and because he'd equated that revenge with his love for Milah, she'd made him question that very love.

Leaving him chained at the top of that beanstalk rekindled those fantasies; she was an enemy then - no risk and no betrayal in thinking of tracing thin lines into her skin with his hook, imagining her gasps as he fucked her into the ground with no care for her pleasure (though that Emma enjoyed every rough thrust, every jab of his hook.)

It was in Granny's diner, with Storybrooke falling to pieces around them and Emma pleading with him to be a part of something that the fantasy changed again. He didn't acknowledge it for a while, though it was there nonetheless, impossible to forget. Sure, he made his feelings clear through snarky comment, teasing, and as much support as a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem could give, but it wasn't until the Echo Cave, admitting his love for her in order to save _her_ former lover, that he admitted to himself that he hadn't thought about fucking her in a long time.

_Not sentimental? _Killian Jones is a talented liar, especially when it comes to lying to himself.

From then and up until this moment, he imagined their first time would be something quite fitting for a fairytale - sweet, simple, full of whispered 'I love yous.'

Her riding him on a stolen ship didn't ever pop into his mind.

"What are _you_ thinking of?" she asks, forehead resting against his and fingers tapping against his belly, impatient and amused.

"You," he says.

She rolls her eyes, takes on a weird, high pitched tone, "Why are you so obsessed with me?"

"I don't get that reference," he says, laughing despite his ignorance.

"We'll save your film education for another day. We have more important things to deal with now."

He knows she's expecting a snide comment, but she is right, _so right_, and he's wasting precious time on fantasy when the real thing is better than the fantasy could ever be. He pulls back and kisses her once, little more than the softest brushing of lips.

His hook fits just right in her belt loop and they pull down easy, the tight fabric tugging her underwear down with them. He swears he's going to spend time worshipping her body this evening but she's pulling her clothes off with the same creeping desperation that makes him slip his hook out of her belt loop and start on his own pants. They pull away from each other to divest the last of their clothes.

It's quiet for a moment, Emma perched on the other end of the couch, her hands on her slightly parted thighs, staring at him with an unreadable expression. He is acutely aware of his laboured breathing, his cock resting heavy on his thigh, and his hook and it's straps.

The thought of taking it off is barely formed before Emma smiles and says, "Don't keep me waiting."

"That would be loutish," he says when he's fit himself between her spread thighs, seated on his knees, one hand on her hip and curve of his hook trailing across her trembling stomach.

"Only a true scoundrel would keep a lady waiting."

"Mmmm," she hums. She draws her hands up to his biceps, grips them tightly. "Come on then, _scoundrel_."

Emma chuckles at her own joke but when he pulls her up and using his hook to keep her steady, grabs himself in hand and angles his cock head against her wet entrance, her chuckles die in her throat. The smile remains, less amused, but more closely mirroring his own, simply happy and wanting.

And then he sinks inside and the smile fades. He understands, bites his own lip at the tight feeling that coils in his stomach with every tinny thrust of his hips. He sucks in a breath and doesn't let it out until he's buried deep in her tight heat.

Her hands are tight on his arms. It takes all his focus to keep her up and angle his thrusts just right that when he pulls out, he pushes just as easily back in. She clings to him, the pressure builds with every back and forth of his hips.

Their breathing is heavy, but soon those breaths turn to sharp gasps, needy whines. Emma's legs hook around his waist, drawing him closer. With every movement now, she grinds up to meet him. Her mouth shivers into shapes that are almost like words, her breasts sway against her chest, and the sight of his cock disappearing into the curly patch of dark blonde hair is almost overwhelming.

Emma _is_ overwhelming.

Killian knows he can make this last longer if he tries, if he wanted to.

She moans. Her right hand looses on his arm and slips down into the crease of the couch. He can hear her nails scraping the leather.

He uses his hand to push her legs up a little higher, so that he can bend them back towards her chest and bring their bodies even closer.

"Emma," he says.

Her name is a question - What do you want? What do you need? Should I stop or should I go on?

She answers with her left hand on his neck, pushing her legs up higher, bringing his face closer.

"Don't stop, please."

He kisses her, misses her mouth and his lips hit her chin instead. Her body shakes beneath him as she laughs. Sucking on the skin, nose pressed to her sweaty cheek, he laughs too. He's getting sloppy with his thrusts, he's too close and that knot of pressure feels ready to explode. She feels too good. He wants to apologize but releases the bruised skin and kisses her lips instead.

"Don't stop," she breathes into his mouth.

His hips slam into hers, fast jabs into her slick, too wet pussy. The knot tightens, impossibly so, and then all at once release. He pushes on, trying to make the pleasure last as long as he can. Her mouth swallows the sound of his orgasm, and maybe he confesses his love into her mouth. Maybe.

For certain, he does, when he pulls out and she stretches her legs out comfortably beneath him. He kisses her throat, licks along the sharp line of her collar bone while his hand works her clit.

Killian makes sure she is looking at him when he says it. He'd had plans to make it casual - told himself he wouldn't say it after sex, that they'd be walking somewhere or seated on a bench at a park or on - wistful thinking - the Jolly, him teaching her how to sail, and he'd have his arms around her and he'd say, "I love you, you know," so she doesn't feel any pressure, so she knows it's all truth, not lust, nothing clouding his mind but his love for her.

But he thinks that it's okay now, with her smile, so happy and lazy and satisfied and her eyes glittering like the night sky, to say, "I love you," because he knows that _she_ can read the truth in his eyes as surely as he can look to the stars above them and find his way home - to _Emma_.


End file.
